‘It’s Monsieur Roché’s funeral today, isn’t it, Pierre?’
‘Yes.’ Pierre was eating scrambled egg on toast for his breakfast – he was beginning to hate eggs. He had no appetite, too worried for Victor and his friend and what might happen to them. His mother hovered over him; the major was at the mirror, adjusting his tie.
‘Thomas, are you about to go to work?’
‘Soon.’
‘Would you have time to put that lovely picture up?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, of course. Shouldn’t take long.’
‘Pierre, you’ve got nails in the shed, haven’t you?’
‘Yes – in a jam jar.’
It was only when the major went out into the yard that Pierre remembered.
Within a minute or two, the major had returned, holding the jam jar in his hand. ‘It’s empty.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot, I lent them all to Xavier.’
‘You lent them?’
‘Gave.’
‘All of them?’ asked his mother.
‘Yes, his father needed them for... for something.’
‘But it was full before,’ said the major holding up the jar, peering into it as if he might have missed one. ‘There must’ve been a hundred nails in here.’
‘It was a big job.’
‘Let me have a look in the shed,’ said Lucienne. ‘There must be one lying around. It does seem strange though, Pierre. All those nails.’
The major waited for her to leave. Turning to Pierre, he said, ‘It was you.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t play games with me.’
‘I... I had to do something – to get into the resistance.’
‘An old man died as a result.’
‘That wasn’t my fault.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ he snapped. ‘Every action has a consequence. You’re old enough to realise that.’
‘I didn’t want that to happen.’
‘But it did. As a direct result of what you did. I should tell Colonel Eisler.’
Pierre’s heart caved in at the sound of the name.
Lucienne returned. ‘Couldn’t find any. I don’t understand, Pierre – why did you have to give them all to Xavier’s father?’
‘Well,’ said the major, re-adjusting his tie, ‘if Pierre could ask Xavier’s father if he could give us one back, I’ll put the picture up tonight.’ He put on his cap. ‘I’d better go.’
*
It was the afternoon of Monsieur Roché’s funeral. Pierre and Xavier were slowly making their way to the church, surprised at how empty the streets were. Lucienne had left earlier. Xavier had elected to wear his father’s tight beret.
‘Why do you wear that thing? It makes your ears stick out.’
‘Your ears stick out by themselves.’
‘No they bloody don’t.’
‘Anyway, you’re telling me that you want one nail. Just. One. Nail. Don’t you have any left? None at all?’
‘No.’
‘One nail?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I’ll bring round one, solitary nail a bit later. So, why you’re so keen on going to this funeral?’ he asked.
‘I told you. It’s because I’m doing his headstone, so I feel I should attend and pay my respects.’ He could never admit the real reason, the sense of responsibility that hung so heavily on his conscience.
‘Should we be wearing black?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. We hardly knew him.’
‘I didn’t know him at all. I’m only going to keep you company – remember?’
‘Let’s go and see. We can always rush back.’
They heard the church clock chime two. As they approached, they could see a strong German presence and, in front of them, remonstrating, a few villagers. ‘This doesn’t look good,’ said Xavier, slowing down.
‘The church doors are open.’
‘There’s the coffin.’
Pierre narrowed his eyes. The coffin, on a trolley, was just inside the church doors. Draped over it was a French flag. The next moment, a German soldier passed by, whipping off the flag. ‘Arse.’
‘Look out, here comes your mother.’
‘Pierre.’ Lucienne emerged from the throng. ‘They won’t let us through.’
‘Why not?’
‘Hello, Xavier. I don’t know. They say only family can attend the funeral.’
‘But he doesn’t, I mean, didn’t have any family,’ said Xavier.
Pierre could see the German lieutenant leaning against a jeep to one side while his men stood in front of the church gate, their rifles held across their chests.
Bouchette and Dubois were among the villagers. ‘This is outrageous,’ shouted Dubois, dressed in a black suit, approaching Lucienne. ‘They’re saying we can’t even pay our respects now?’
‘They don’t want a repeat of the Algerian funeral,’ said Pierre.
‘Buggers. Oh, sorry, Madame Durand.’
The villagers began dispersing, intimidated by the German presence. ‘Let me try. I’m doing the headstone; they’ll let me through.’ said Pierre. He approached the soldiers at the gate as everyone else left, Bouchette and Dubois among them. Beyond the gate, Pierre could see Father de Beaufort arguing with a German soldier who was smoking, sitting on the grass next to the gravelled path, with his back propped up against a headstone. The soldier threw away his cigarette and rose, slovenly, to his feet.
‘Hello,’ said Pierre to two German privates, adapting a deep tone. ‘I am preparing the headstone for the deceased. I’m supposed to be here. Can I come through, please?’
The soldiers stared blankly beyond him, resolutely gripping their guns. Behind them, Father de Beaufort had stubbed out the fizzing cigarette end with his shoe, and was walking back into the church, his robes flapping behind him.
In his side vision, Pierre saw the lieutenant spit. ‘It’s you again, Frenchie,’ he said in German.
‘I want to go to the funeral.’
The lieutenant idly produced his revolver, clicked the hammer back and, without warning, fired at Pierre’s feet, hitting the gravel path with a sharp ping. A cloud of dust exploded around his shoes as Pierre jumped back. ‘OK, OK,’ shouted Pierre, scurrying back to join Xavier and Lucienne.
He found his friend almost doubled-up in laughter.
‘Are you all right, Pierre?’ said his mother, reaching out for him.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, jutting out his jaw.
‘Well, they sure listened to you,’ said Xavier, guffawing.
‘Yeah, very funny.’
Lucienne shook her head. ‘Come on, I think we should go home.’
*
The night was eerily still, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. Pierre looked up as the slither of moon disappeared behind a cloud. Kafka had told him to meet up at eleven in the ditch beneath a small junction box on the railway line. He was told to keep an eye out for the French guards the Germans had posted as patrols along the track. The railway was a good couple of kilometres’ walk away. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to. He walked slowly, continually checking behind him, pausing at corners, conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the road. He knew that if caught out this long after curfew, he would never be able to explain it. He’d reached the point where he had to leave the road and follow a path with a field on one side and the woods on the other. Here, at least, he felt more secure – the trees providing him ample cover. He realised how heavily he was breathing – not from the excursion but from the tension. Glancing behind, beyond the field with its corn swaying gently in the breeze, he could make out the outline of the town, the church spire looming in the dark sky. How peaceful the world seemed. A bat flew by. Pierre wanted to smile, wanted to console himself with the thought that nature had no truck with the misdeeds of man. But the thought provided no consolation. He pressed on, his feet as heavy as clay.
Beneath the trees he could no longer make out the time on his watch. He could see the junction box ahead of him, up on the embankment. No sign of a patrol. The last stretch, from the edge of the woods to the line, was across an expanse of barren grass. He ran across, stooping, half expecting to hear a shot ring through the air. As he approached, he saw the figures of others crouching against the bank. They weren’t Germans – that was all he needed to know for now.
‘Good boy.’ It was Kafka. Someone shook his shoulder in a paternal sort of way – it was Monsieur Dubois, wearing his blue corduroy jacket with a wide leather collar. Next to him, Monsieur Gide. Pierre felt relieved to see them all. Safety in numbers, he thought. But no Lincoln or Claire. Pity, he thought, she’d be missing out. Behind Dubois, crouching, was Monsieur Bouchette. The man gave Pierre a wave. They were lying in a ditch at the bottom of the bank – above them, the junction box.
‘Right,’ said Kafka. ‘Everyone ready?’ He spoke in a whisper yet it still sounded too loud. ‘Good. Let’s go.’
As previously instructed, Pierre and Dubois edged about fifty metres to the right, while Bouchette and Gide covered a similar distance to the left – leaving only Kafka, with his explosives, in the middle. Dubois led the way. A thin veil of rain began to fall. Continually crouching, Pierre’s back began to ache. After a while, Dubois told Pierre to stay put while he went further along. Kafka had devised this system of lookouts – an outer one and an inner one, each armed with a white handkerchief and, if that failed, a whistle. The whistles, Kafka had told them, had been provided by a sympathetic school teacher in Saint-Romain, while the explosives had been commandeered from a quarry left to waste since the Germans’ arrival. Dubois and Bouchette, as the further lookouts were each armed with a cosh. Kafka held onto the only firearm they possessed – his wartime revolver.
Pierre watched as Dubois made his way along the ditch. With a start, he realised someone was on the track; two men heading their way. Dubois, too far down, hadn’t seen them. The men, strolling along, had rifles slung behind their backs, their silhouettes made hazy by the rain. Pierre had his handkerchief at the ready but he couldn’t use it – Dubois had his back to him and it would only attract the patrol. The whistle was just as useless. He looked back, hoping to see Kafka but the man was out of view. His mouth felt dry. Creeping forward on the damp grass, he kept the two men in sight. They had stopped. Holding his breath, Pierre stopped also. Dubois, at last, had seen them too. He also halted, waiting, Pierre guessed, for him to catch up. One of the men was patting his pockets, as if looking for something. Pierre crawled forward on his knees, using his hand on the grass to help him keep balance. The patrolmen were lighting cigarettes, talking quietly but loud enough for Pierre to hear what they were saying. They were talking about the war memorial, Soldier Mike. The Germans had ordered its destruction. Why, wondered Pierre, would they want to do that?
With a wave of the hand, Dubois urged Pierre forward but he felt unable to move any further. The two patrolmen moved slowly on – they were now half way between Pierre and Dubois, Dubois behind them, making hand signals which Pierre tried to decipher while not wanting to take his eyes off the men on the line. Dubois was creeping up the embankment. Pierre felt at a disadvantage – the men were in front of him; if he moved now, they would see him. Dubois had reached the train track. One of the men turned. Dubois screamed as he sprinted with, thought Pierre, surprising speed for a man in his forties. Both men reached for their rifles. Pierre tried to climb the bank but his legs, shaking uncontrollably, gave way beneath him and he slipped down the wet grass. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, trying to maintain his balance. With frightening clarity, he suddenly realised he would rather be shot than be found simpering at the bottom of a ditch. With renewed determination, he ran up the bank, knowing that any moment could be his last. Clambering to the top, his mouth gaped open at what he saw. The three men were sharing a cigarette.
‘Pierre,’ whispered Dubois, beckoning him over. ‘Come here. Come meet my brother-in-law.’
His knees gave way as the relief flooded through him. With a stab of shame, he realised he had tears in his eyes. Surreptitiously wiping them away, he hoped Dubois and the patrolmen wouldn’t notice in the dark and the rain.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dubois. ‘We’re safe here.’
But, thought Pierre, are we not exposed up here on the track?
‘Hello,’ said the two patrolmen, shaking Pierre’s wet hand.
‘You gave us a fright there,’ said Dubois’s brother-in-law.
‘Likewise,’ said Dubois.
Pierre couldn’t see their faces. He hoped they couldn’t see him. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Gustave and François are, how shall we say it, unwilling collaborators.’
Gustave sniffed. ‘I’d rather we didn’t use that word, unwilling or not.’
‘We didn’t ask to do this,’ said François.
‘Don’t worry about Pierre,’ said Dubois, wiping the rain off his spectacles. ‘He’s just a kid.’
Just a kid? thought Pierre. I’m out here, aren’t I?
Footfalls on the track made them step back. ‘It’s only Kafka,’ said Dubois.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Kafka, his revolver at the ready.
‘Put that away, you fool. We’re among friends here.’
‘No man doing Germans’ work is a friend of mine.’
Dubois flung his cigarette away. ‘Oh, do shut up.’
Bouchette and Gide had joined them. The seven of them climbed back down the bank.
‘Have you chaps heard?’ said Gustave on reaching the bottom. ‘The Germans are planning to pull down Soldier Mike.’
‘What on earth for?’ screeched Bouchette.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said François. ‘It’s a memorial to the 1870 war – against them.’
‘Yeah, but they beat us that time.’
‘And that will be the only time,’ said Kafka.
‘You’re going to have to hit us, you know,’ said François.
‘My sister won’t thank me for it,’ said Dubois.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Why do we have to hit them?’ asked Pierre.
‘Come on, boy, think about it. So they can say to the Krauts that we overpowered them.’
Kafka put his revolver back into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll happily oblige. I’ll take you,’ he said, pointing at François. ‘Pierre, you can hit the other one.’
‘Me?’ The idea of hitting someone without the benefit of a fight seemed preposterous.
‘It’ll be good for you. So, how shall we do this?’ he said, stepping up to François.
‘I don’t know but...’ The man fell back as Kafka’s fist caught him on the jaw. He remained on his feet until a second punch floored him. He landed on the grass. After a while, he sat up, puffing his cheeks, and holding the side of his face. ‘Whoa. Hopefully that’ll do it.’
‘Your turn, Pierre.’
Pierre considered Gustave. The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Get it over and done with,’ he said.
Clenching his fist, clenching his jaw, Pierre stared at him, trying to summon a feeling of hatred. But it wasn’t working; he felt himself go slack. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘You have to,’ said Dubois.
‘You’ll be doing me a favour,’ added Gustave softly. ‘Believe me, I’d rather be hit by you than a Nazi.’
Not wanting to give himself time to think about it, Pierre swung his fist. It caught the man on the side of the nose. He shook his knuckles, surprised at how much it hurt. Gustave, meanwhile, did not move. With a groan, Pierre realised that his punch had barely registered.
‘Come on, boy; you can do it,’ said Kafka behind him. ‘Imagine he’s a Kraut, imagine he’s just raped your mother; no, not your mother. Claire. Yes, Claire. This bastard in his Nazi uniform who has no right to be in our country has just forced himself onto Claire. Poor Claire; defiled by a...’
Gustave staggered back. Having hit him, Pierre held his fist under his armpit. Gustave laughed. ‘That’s better,’ he said, dabbing his lip.
Kafka stepped up to him just as he was recovering his balance and struck him again. ‘Just for good measure,’ he said.
Gustave flew back, landing heavily. This time he didn’t move. Dubois went to him, bending over his stricken friend. ‘Jesus, Kafka; you’ve knocked him out cold.’
Kafka winked at Pierre. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said. ‘Right, back to work. Our little homemade device is in place. Now, just a gentle little explosion. Oh...’ He took the patrolmen’s rifles, handing one each to Dubois and Bouchette. ‘We’ll take these, thank you very much.’